


Tamed

by softestpunk



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: I am but a humble ficcer, M/M, fair warning if you read a lot of my stuff? this is Dark, hashtag kingneigher, here for this incredible rarepair because who doesn't love a challenge, however: stay safe babes do not read this if it's going to be upsetting to you, this is definitely dub-con rather than non-con, this? this is Draven's fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 05:03:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19900273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: Captured by Nilfgaard, Letho has been bound and forced to fight in their arena--but when he's called on to service a wealthy patron, this is the least of his problems.This is straight up PWP with the flimsiest of excuses, not even sorry.





	Tamed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dravenxiv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dravenxiv/gifts).



> "Kingneigher" was not my invention, will let the progenitor decide whether or not to out themself.
> 
> Also filling the Trope Bingo square: rare pairs

Six weeks in Nilfgaard’s arena had done nothing to improve Letho’s opinion of Nilfgaard, Nilfgaardians, the combat skills of anyone who wasn’t a fellow witcher, or the merits of being confined to small, cramped spaces and only being allowed out of them to easily defeat whichever _other_ criminal was unlucky enough to end up in a match against him.

The door to his cell opening up again not twenty minutes after his last match was quite a surprise.

Being left in a room with a warm bath and towels and orders to bathe was such a shock that he didn’t even think to take advantage of it until there was a collar around his neck, the spellwork itchy against his skin.

He’d seen these used. He knew what they were for.

But he was _off limits_. Too dangerous.

The chance to bathe wasn’t likely to come up again soon, though, so he stripped his rags off hurriedly and climbed into the bath with a soft sigh.

He couldn’t identify all the herbs in the soap he’d been left, but it didn’t stop him lathering up with pleasure, happy to wash the accumulated dirt, sweat, and blood of the past weeks off his skin.

Maybe the collars had other uses. Maybe he was due another audience with Emhyr.

Every other prisoner he’d talked to who’d worn one of them had the same story, though. They were dragged off to a private room to meet with one of Nilfgaard’s richest, who were paying for the privilege of spending the night with them.

Letho knew he wasn’t on offer. Not after three breakout attempts had left twelve guards dead without so much as a weapon in his hand. They understood now.

The bracelets sealed around his wrists cut off his access to signs, and they always sent six men to deal with him.

Practically even odds.

The guards returned just as the water was starting to cool, dragging Letho away down darkened corridors without giving him a chance to re-dress.

Well. If Emhyr wanted to see everything he had to offer…

Fine by him.

The corridors warmed as they moved through them, changing from damp, bare stone walls to wooden boards as they climbed flight after flight of stairs, until finally tapestries and gilding dominated the space.

Letho was shoved into one of the rooms, a warning hissed at him in Nilfgaardian, which he understood much better than he let on.

The presence of a wide bed in the middle of the room told him this probably wasn’t a meeting with Emhyr.

Letho chuckled to himself.

Some rich idiot was so desperate to sleep with him that they’d take the risk? If Nilfgaard’s professional soldiers and most hardened criminals couldn’t get the better of him, what chance did some slip of a noblewoman have?

He’d met _plenty_ of people who got off on the danger of bedding a witcher, but those people hadn’t known just how dangerous he was.

The door behind him opened again, closing just as suddenly.

Letho turned to see _which_ rich idiot had bought him for the night.

And found himself staring directly into the sparkling, dark eyes of General Morvran Voorhis.

***

“Letho of Gulet,” Morvran pronounced, offering a tiny bow as he crossed the room, moving to stand in front of him.

He didn’t shy away from looking his prize up and down, soaking in every detail. It had been more than enough trouble to bring the witcher here, but on first inspection, it would be worth it.

“General Voorhis,” Letho said, his Nilfgaardian awkwardly accented even in those two words.

“Common will be acceptable,” Morvran said, closing the gap between them and reaching out to rest the tips of his fingers against Letho’s impossibly broad chest.

Few men were taller than Morvran, but Letho had perhaps two fingers, three at the outside, on him.

Warmth pooled in the pit of Morvran’s stomach.

He had waited, and waited, and _waited_ for this.

“Why am I here?” Letho asked.

Unafraid. Not too _stupid_ to be afraid. Morvran could see in the clever slitted eyes that the witcher had already assessed the scenario, and Morvran himself, and realised that this was not idiocy on his part. That things were not as they appeared, that Morvran felt more than comfortable within inches of a man who had showed no hesitation in ending a life.

Not because he did not understand the danger, but because he had accounted for it.

“You must have heard stories.”

Letho raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Rich nobles paying for a night with one of the arena’s best. Heard all about it. Also heard I wasn’t _eligible_.”

“You were not,” Morvran said. “The promises and bribery this has taken would flatter you, I’m sure.”

“You couldn’t afford prettier?” Letho asked.

Morvran snorted. “ _Pretty_ is cheap and easy to come by. I am the son of a prince, a general in my own right, and almost certain to be crowned emperor upon Emhyr’s… retirement.”

The look on Letho’s face told Morvran that he had understood the meaning of _retirement_ correctly.

“I can have anyone,” he added. “Except. You.”

A spark of realisation, the faintest hint of a smirk.

“What’s in it for me?”

Morvran’s face broke into a grin, dark eyes glittering with excitement. “I knew witchers were uncommonly self-interested. I think you and I will get along well.”

***

Morvran Voorhis was a puzzle, and the kind of puzzle that cut if you approached it from the wrong angle. Letho watched him glide about the room in a long black robe that flowed around his feet and gave the effect of a spirit whose feet didn’t touch the ground, and considered.

He’d faced thousands of monsters in his life, but this one was unique.

Sharper. In every possible sense.

“I will not force you,” Morvran assured him. “Though I imagine you are beginning to feel the first stirrings of a very powerful… stimulant, in your system. How strange that Nordlings have no word for such a thing.”

A tingle ran down Letho’s spine as Morvran spoke, heat making his skin prickle. The herbs he couldn’t identify in the soap.

“Witchers are unusual, of course. I expect the effect will be briefer, but perhaps more intense in your case. We will see.”

“It’s very flattering that you haven’t even considered harming me yet,” he said, turning another one of those smiles on Letho.

Dangerous smiles, the way a fox smiled at a chicken.

“How do you know?” Letho asked, only realising himself that he hadn’t.

“Even a witcher would be writhing on the floor in agony.” He nodded to the collar on Letho’s neck. “It would kill a normal man outright.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Letho huffed.

His mind was beginning to fill with duck feathers. Soft and hazy, thoughts less defined around the edges.

 _This man is dangerous_ , he reminded himself, but the idea didn’t quite seem to stick.

Morvran laid delicate fingertips in the hollow of Letho’s throat, looking up at him with heat in his gaze. A shove, and Letho was stumbling back, legs hitting the bed behind him, sitting heavily on a softer mattress than he’d ever known before.

“Behave, and consent, and I will test the very limits of your famed witcher stamina.”

This wasn’t about sex. In the back of Letho’s mind, that thought—with the edges dulled—floated like a butterfly on the breeze. This _wasn_ _’t_ about sex. Sex was just a tool.

But with blood rushing south from whatever he’d been drugged with and a well-groomed, clean, soft-skinned Morvran Voorhis looking at him like that…

“And if I refuse?” Letho asked as Morvran’s fingers trailed over his crown, curling back behind his ear as if he was trying this with an elf.

Perhaps one non-human was much like another to him.

“Then I will send you back as you are,” Morvran murmured. “And your chance at a warm bed, another bath, and my continued patronage will have been lost.”

 _Continued patronage_.

The remaining part of Letho’s brain that was still making sense knew _that_ was the important part.

“I am quite famous for my kindness,” Morvran bent down to murmur in his ear, still stroking behind the other one. “To those who are loyal.”

Letho grunted, the scent of arousal and whatever perfume Morvran was wearing clouding his senses.

“I would have your answer while the night is still young.”

Well. He’d been ploughed by the Nilfgaardians once. How bad could it be the second time around?

“Yes.”

“Yes, _sir_.”

***

With his arms bound above his head—more for control than safety—Letho of Gulet really did look quite striking against black and red sheets, bright topaz eyes never once leaving Morvran’s face, even as he shrugged his robe from his shoulders.

One day, he would have those hands on him.

One day he would do without the bracelets, knowing that he was in no danger at all.

In the meantime, he straddled Letho’s solid thighs, a tingle rolling down his spine as the sensitive skin on the inside of his own caught against the collection of scars the witcher had acquired, one by one. He settled easily in the hollow of his hips, unused to being smaller than a partner, but revelling in it.

Fascination saw him reaching out to trace another scar on broad expanse of Letho’s chest, a deep gash that would have seen another man dead.

“Endrega,” Letho said.

“What?” Morvran frowned down at him.

“An endrega left that. Sir.”

Morvran _should_ have corrected the contempt in Letho’s voice, demanded more respect, but he had long known that respect was not a thing to be demanded. It was a thing to be earned, one way or another.

“I have no notion what that is,” Morvran admitted freely. Perhaps he should have known, but that was the knowledge of a witcher, not a general. Certainly not a Nilfgaardian General who did everything he could to avoid seeing battle at all.

Before Letho could respond, Morvran gripped his hard cock with the other hand, squeezing hard. Too hard for a normal man, hard enough to be painful, but the bone-deep moan and the way Letho’s eyes rolled back told him he had judged correctly for a witcher.

It would have been very, very easy to develop a taste for them.

Especially _this_ one, a great brute of a man, larger and more powerful than anything short of a half-giant.

Curling his hand around both of them was no small feat, Letho’s thick cock almost too much for his grip as it stood, but Morvran found a satisfactory grip after a moment, a shudder running through him as heat and friction and _need_ swirled in the pit of his belly.

No doubt Letho had realised this was about so much more than sex, but perhaps he had not realised that it _was_ , also, about sex. He was a dangerous man, so dangerous as to be forbidden entirely, and now Morvran held him in the palm of his hand, and listened to his quickening breath and thundering heart, loud enough to hear in the quiet room.

There was much to be said for his appeal.

Biting his lip as he stroked them both, Morvran reached for his discarded robe, pulling a vial of oil from a hidden pocket on the inside. He had toyed with himself before Letho’s arrival, prepared half-heartedly, but he could see now that he would need more.

Quite a bit more.

The familiar scent made his cock twitch as it rose to his nose, the memory of a hundred times like this sending a surge of heat rushing through him. The instant ghost of the stretch and burn and fullness this promised, but more, and better, and entirely at _his_ command.

Letho’s gaze bored into him as he worked more oil into his body, hissing and writhing with anticipation, eager to have what he had so coveted for so long.

Upending the remainder of the vial over Letho’s cock, he stroked once, twice more, drawing a gasp from the witcher, and positioned himself with his hand firmly grasping the base, thick head pressed against his body.

A cry wrenched out of him as he sank down, his breadth of experience still not _quite_ enough to prepare him for this, but _oh_ , this was what he’d expected. Something new, something unique.

He breathed through his nose as his body adjusted, revelling in the flare of Letho’s nostrils as he clenched around him. Morvran Voorhis had long known that the power of sex could be wielded by anyone who cared to study it, that it was not limited to the stunningly beautiful. He might never be one of their number, but this was simply a _game_.

A game he was long accustomed to winning.

Hand’s splayed on Letho’s belly and a wicked grin spread over his face, he began to rock his hips.

***

As it turned out, Morvran _meant_ it when he’d said he planned on testing the limits of Letho’s stamina. It hadn’t taken him long to come the first time, back arched dramatically, sweat rolling down pale, untouched skin, milk-white thighs tightening around his waist.

For most men, that would have been _it_.

Not this one. Maybe not Nilfgaardians in general. Hell, people said they were part elf for a _reason_ , didn’t they?

This was his third round, and he didn’t show any signs of stopping.

Still under the influence and still bound to the bed, Letho had little choice but to watch him, strong rider’s thighs tensing as he rocked back, pleasure written in every softened line of his face, hard cock bouncing against his stomach, the occasional squeeze either speeding him up or slowing him down—it was just about impossible to tell.

“If I give you the use of your hands,” Morvran panted between strokes, not once losing his rhythm. “Where would you put them?”

The answer should have been _around your neck_ , or something like it, but not even the slightest crackle came from the control collar as Letho’s gaze fell to Morvran’s thighs, his fingers itching to touch the cleanest, softest skin he’d ever seen. Morvran, general though he may have been, was as soft and cared-for as any princess, every inch of the skin sliding against Letho’s smooth and perfect.

Morvran chuckled, apparently reading everything that’d just gone through his mind with a glance, and bent forward—still not missing a stroke, and untied the bindings.

As promised, Letho’s hands went straight to his thighs, callused fingers trailing up them, savouring the softness under them. Laughter spilled from Morvran’s throat as Letho’s hands trailed higher, lost in the feeling of velvet under them, settling on his neat, trim waist, thumbs settling in the hollows of his hips, perfectly-defined.

Witchers didn’t look like _this_.

“I begin to think you are enjoying yourself,” Morvran said.

Letho met his eyes again, and began to think the same.

***

Morvran stretched out next to a still-dozing Letho, the aftereffects of the aphrodisiac he’d been dosed with keeping him asleep where the movement would otherwise have woken someone with such keen senses.

He ached from head to toe and could not have been more pleased with the outcome. A hot bath and a long walk would soothe his sore muscles, and the memory of the evening would keep him warm for some time.

More importantly, he thought as he stroked his fingers along one unbound wrist, the bracelet still firmly in place, the memory of this night would keep _Letho_ warm for some time.

The very first brick had been laid.

Soon, he would have this witcher on a leash without needing to bind him at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanna say if you're still here I'm impressed with your bravery and endurance.


End file.
